“That goes for me,” I said. “But let me include you all. You three have laid hands on my wife. And the punishment for that is death. Make no mistake about that. As sure as I live, I’ll get you, go where you will.” I glanced up at the street. “Here’s a policeman coming now, to tell us to move. I’ve only to say one word, to send the three of you down. But I wouldn’t say it for worlds… You see, you’re
our
meat.”
With that, I slammed the door with a violence that rocked the car, and Mansel turned to deal with the policeman, who looked very cross. I could not hear all he said, but I know he declared that we had pursued the Lowland, to remonstrate with those within it for driving so fast: that he had read them a lesson and they had expressed their regret – which must have been gall and wormwood to Gedge and his friends. Then he went off to move his Rolls, while the policeman vented his anger upon the rogues, demanding to see their papers and breathing out threatenings against them for their iniquity.
I withdrew to join Jenny, who was sitting still in my car, with Bell at the door: and Mansel drove on and round to come up in our rear. This he did as a precaution, for once Gedge had a clear run, out of sheer rage he might well have fired upon Mansel, as he went by. And just as Mansel came up, the policeman released the Lowland and I saw it move out of our sight.
I was sorry to see it go, for the three had been under my hand and God only knew when and where I should find them again: but to trail them forthwith was hopeless, for night was coming on and they would have been on the lookout.
First of all, we drove out of the street and into a little
place
. There we decided three things – that we should return to Anise to dine and sleep at its inn: that Carsen should drive to Libourne, to try and arrest the Bagots and tell them that all was well: and that Bell should wire to them at Orthez and Auch – for neither Audrey nor John would have slept or sought to sleep until they knew from us that Jenny was safe.
When Carson had left for Libourne and Bell had gone off to wire, Jenny and Mansel and I repaired to a little café and drank some beer. Then we got into my car, and, picking up Bell at the Post Office, drove to Anise.
And there, when we had had dinner, my darling told us her tale.
“I thought, of course, it was John and Audrey’s car. As I opened the door, a coat came over my head and I was pushed in. I did cry out to Audrey – I don’t suppose she heard. Not being able to see, I went down on the floor; and before I was up, we were off. I tore the coat away, and there was Brevet beside me, and two other men in front. The one by the driver gave orders, and so I knew it was Gedge. They called the driver ‘Lousy’. He certainly knows how to drive – it was that more than anything else that shook me up. I knew that Audrey was good and I was sure that she must have seen us leave – I mean, she was just behind me – but I couldn’t believe that she could drive like Lousy. He really was terribly good, and she deserves full marks for hanging on to his tail.
“Of course I knew you’d get me – you and Jonathan. But I believed, of course, you were miles away and that you would know nothing till Bell reported at Orthez tomorrow night. And then you would have to find me… And I knew that Gedge wouldn’t leave me lying about. Still, I thought the best thing to do was to watch the road, not only to see which way we seemed to be heading, but also to give the idea that I wasn’t hearing or caring what they might say. Brevet started to talk in a slimy way; but I said when I wanted to talk I’d let him know. So then he was quiet. And I stared out of the window and listened with all my might.
“Soon after leaving Jois, Lousy said we were being trailed, and Gedge and Brevet looked round.
“‘It’s a Lowland all right,’ said Lousy.
“‘Well, run away,’ said Gedge.
“‘Perhaps,’ said Lousy. ‘There’s someone sitting there that knows how to drive.’
“Then Gedge asked what he was paid for: and Lousy said he’d only one neck and that, if Gedge liked, he’d get out and Gedge could try for himself to ‘run away’.
“Of course I was so excited that I could hardly sit still, and I thought it best to look round. But Gedge said, ‘Don’t do that. We’ll tell you when your friends overtake us.’ And Brevet laughed.
“Nobody spoke after that, except to announce that Audrey was still behind. Sometimes they thought they’d lost her, but always she reappeared until, just before they turned off, they swore she was out of sight. You can imagine my feelings…
“Well, we went down into a valley, and Lousy eased up. And when we came up and out on the other side, Gedge told him to stop. Then he got out the map and found where we were. And then he said this: ‘If we turn left at Stère, in six or eight miles we’ll strike the Agen road. And from Agen to the château is, I know, a hundred and one.’
“Then Brevet laughed.
“‘I’m not at all sure,’ he said, ‘that our beloved Horace will welcome this particular guest to the Sabine Hills.’
“‘He won’t,’ said Gedge. ‘He’ll do as he’s damned well told, and The Stoat will look after her. The Baron is where he belongs, and if you don’t know that, he does.’
“Then nobody spoke again till we were approaching Stère.
“And then Brevet spoke to me.
“‘We appear to be nearing what is sometimes called a “built-up area.” I can hardly say how distressing it would be for us both–’
“‘Speak English,’ said Gedge. Then he turned round and looked at me. ‘Give your word to stay put, or down you go on the floor, with Brevet’s feet on your back and this in your mouth.’ And he threw to Brevet a handful of cotton waste.
“I knew he meant what he said, so it seemed best to give my word.
“I saw the Rolls before they did, and nearly cried out with joy.
“And then –
“‘My God, that’s Mansel,’ cried Gedge; and Lousy laughed, and Gedge hit him on the side of the head.
“And then you started to back…
“‘Back, you —,’ screamed Gedge. ‘Back and get out, you —.’
“And Lousy said, ‘Look behind.’
“And, as Gedge turned to look, the doors of the Lowland were opened by Carson and Bell.”
There was a little silence.
Then –
“Jenny,” said Mansel, “you’re a marvel. I know no other being that, placed as you were, would contrive to pull their weight. And now for the riddle. Happily, Brevet can’t forget that he was once a gentleman. And a scholar. So he calls ‘the Baron’ Horace, and he places his retreat in ‘the Sabine Hills’. Why? I mean, he is a scholar – no doubt about that. And the Roman poet Horace did have a little farm in the Sabine Hills. But why should Brevet compare the Baron to him?”
I was out of my depth and said so. But Mansel insisted that there was something there.
“If we can read it,” he said, “we shall know where they are. ‘The Sabine Hills,’ I assume, are the Pyrénées. A hundred miles from Agen would take you right into the range. And what was Horace’s farm called? I don’t think it had a name. And yet – he called it something… Give me the
Michelin Guide
.”
Could I have helped him, I would have sat up all night; but my intimacy with the Classics is very slight and does not include the pet names by which the Roman poets were accustomed to call their farms. So Jenny and I went to bed and left him reading the map – and wishing that Carson would come, for he had in his Rolls some maps of a larger scale.
The next morning I learned two things. The first was that Carson was back, and John and Audrey with him. This was a great piece of luck, for he had encountered them as he was approaching and they were leaving Libourne. The second was that Mansel had left for Jois – and would be back for breakfast at half-past eight.
And so he was.
“I’ve solved the riddle,” he said. “At a quarter to one this morning I found in the large-scale map of the Pyrénées a little village called Arx. That was what Horace called his homestead. Arx is the Latin for a stronghold, or, if you translate it freely, in this case an ivory tower. Well, I knew I was right; but, just to assure assurance, I’ve been to Jois to look at the telephone book. Sure enough, the Baron Horace de Parol inhabits the
Château d’Arx
.”
“I give you best,” said I.
“To Brevet the glory,” said Mansel. “He never took his degree, but to how many Masters of Arts would those two names have remembered the Sabine Hills?”
Some thirty-four hours had gone by.
Jenny and Audrey were in Wiltshire – I had a wire in my pocket, saying that they had reached Maintenance, which is the name of my home. Myself, I had driven the two of them up to Dieppe, had put them aboard the night packet and watched it sail. And my Rolls, with them. After that, I had taken the boat-train to Paris, to spend the next few hours at a quiet hotel. And then I had travelled to Dax, where John Bagot was on the platform and the Lowland, with Bell at its wheel, in the station yard.
As we took our seats in the car –
“How far have you got?” said I.
“We’ve got a fine base,” said John, “in some of the prettiest country I ever saw. It’s a farm which is owned by a butler, now upon holiday. His parents run it for him: but he’s modernized the first floor and made it into a really excellent flat. Here he and his wife repair, whenever they can. When they are not there, it stands empty: but, after a word with Mansel, he saw the wisdom of letting the flat to us. He’s returning to duty tomorrow, so we can go in the next day. His mother will feed us, and Carson and Bell and Rowley will do the rest. The flat has a separate entrance, and the cars can go in the barn.”
“Splendid,” said I. “Where is this – sanctuary?”
“Thirty-one miles from Arx and eleven from Ray.”
“Ray, I know. Which way do you go from Ray?”
“South and by west.”
“That’s off my map,” said I.
“It gives the impression of being off most people’s maps.”
“So much the better,” said I. “And how about Arx?”
“Mansel and Carson are having a peep this evening.”
I nodded. Then –
“Where are we bound for now?”
“Only a barn, I’m afraid: but Rowley’s cooking some food, and we’ve got some beer upon ice.”
“What more can anyone ask? When shall we be there?”
“Under the hour. It’s not very far from Pau.”
Sure enough, we reached the barn before it was half-past eight, and a quarter of an hour later Mansel and Carson arrived. As we ate a most excellent supper, the former made his report.
This was disappointing.
“Arx lies in a valley, and it is served by one road: this road runs right through it from east to west. So much the map told me. You won’t be surprised to hear that I avoided that road. I chose a parallel road about three miles south, and when I was level with Arx, I left the Rolls with Carson and took to my feet. The idea was to gain the top of the intervening ridge and then look down upon Arx in the valley below… I looked down on the valley all right, but not upon Arx. I could see the road which serves it on either side; but then the woods closed in. I was directly above it, for I could hear its cascade, which is marked on the map: but neither château nor village can be surveyed from the south. So tomorrow we must try from the north. There aren’t any woods that side, so we ought to have a clear view.”
“Early,” said I. “I’ll lay Gedge doesn’t get up before nine o’clock.”
“I doubt if he’s there,” said Mansel. “Unless I’m much mistaken, he’s looking for me. Which brings me to something we’ve never had time to discuss. How did he trace us to Anise?”
“I’m damned if I know,” said I.
“Nor I. It’s got me beat. But I think I’ve told you that Gedge is no ordinary man. Brevet has, anyway. All of his kidney regard him with great respect. They’d rather go to jug than get across Gedge. So we must be on the tips of our toes. He’s caught me bending twice: once, two days ago, and once a year or so back. On each of those occasions I had good reason to think that he could not know where I was. But he did. So Carson is watching now. A sentinel is something which we must always have.” He looked at John Bagot. “I’ve told you plainly, John, that you should not be on in this scene. Your place is with Audrey. This affair is ours and has nothing to do with you.”
“Yes, it has,” said John Bagot. “Jenny was left in our charge, and we let her go.”
“That is not being fair to yourself.”
“Then put it like this,” said John. “If you were placed as I am, would you retire to Wiltshire and hope for the best?”
“I might if I were just married.”
“To Audrey Nuneham?”
We all of us laughed at that, for Audrey’s one regret was that she had been born a woman and not a man.
“Well, so be it,” said Mansel. “But no funny business, John. You’ve got to do as we say.”
Then we strolled for half an hour, before we went to our beds in some sweet-smelling hay.
At half-past six the next morning I saw the sun strike the roof of the Château of Arx.
The house was more of a castle than châteaux usually are and was hanging above the village upon the side of the hill. It was as big as the village, which was a tiny place. By its side fell down the cascade which Mansel had heard, to swell the blue-and-white torrent which neighboured the road. Above and on either hand the woods came down, and the house was wholly screened from every side but the north. A drive slanted out of the village and curled through terraced meadows up to the
porte-cochère
: the great doors of this were shut, but it clearly gave to a court of considerable size. And that was all, except that three rows of beehives stood near the waterfall. The village was huddled on either side of the road, and it showed no sign of life, because, as is often the case, the villagers paid no attention to summer time. To the left or east of the château, miniature railway lines ran out of a little cutting and crossed the road: they skirted the north of the village and then turned south, to cross the road again and disappear in a wood. They might have been serving some quarry, out of our sight.
“A level crossing,” said Mansel, “on either side. That’s very convenient, you know. You’ll observe that the poles are down.”
This was a fact. No car could have entered that village; because upon either hand the road was barred.
“It’s mediaeval,” I said.
Mansel nodded.
“The idea is mediaeval; but ‘our beloved Horace’ has moved with the times. The portcullis is
demodé
. The level crossing is very much more to the point. A car can be held at arm’s length.”
“And the Departmental surveyor?”
“Is deeply appreciative,” said Mansel. “Light railways need not be guarded. But the Baron shows a sense of duty towards his fellow men. What I really want to see is how and when those good-looking poles are raised.”
His desire was granted precisely at seven o’clock.
At that hour, as though by magic, the barriers rose – first one pair and then the other. Somewhere two levers had been pulled or two wheels had been turned… And very soon after this, château and village alike showed signs of life. Shutters and doors were opened, and smoke began to rise – and a servant came out of the wicket which hung in one of the doors of the
porte-cochère
. But, though we waited till ten, no car came in or went out and all that we saw were peasants delivering bread and things like that. Had the great doors been opened, we could, we were sure, have seen well into the court, for we had binoculars with us, which showed us everything. Still, we had now surveyed the enemy’s lair: we had seen some of its features; and, if we had occasion to approach it, we should not be all at sea. And since, in a case like this, the first thing to do, if we could, was to get to know the country which lay between us and our foes, we wasted no more time, but made our way back to our barn. There we broke our fast, and then we set out with both cars for the farm at which we should sleep on the following night. We proved the country about this on every side, gradually producing our radius until the circle it commanded swept very close to Arx: and, since our maps were good and the roads were few, by the evening we were familiar with all the neighbourhood. On the following day, taking Arx as our centre, we did the same, proving the country about it for twenty miles. When, therefore, we sat down to supper in our most excellent flat, we all of us knew the ground over which we might have to move – and knew it thoroughly.
Mansel rose from the table and took out a pipe.
“By rights,” he said, “our friends should have found us by now. But – well, I’m not going to say they haven’t, because I know Gedge: but I do not think they have. In which case, they’re looking for us. Whether they are yet back at Arx I have no idea. We’ll keep some observation tomorrow…
“Now Gedge is out to get me, so I am out to get Gedge: and William has scores to settle. Gedge and Co. know these things, and, after what happened at Stère, I have no doubt at all that any one of those four is ready to shoot at sight any one of us six. Perhaps I should except Rowley, for Punter’s the only one who has seen him before: but Punter knows Rowley as well as Carson and Bell. And let us remember this – that if one of them should get killed, the others will cover it up; for, however good their case, they simply cannot afford to get involved with the police. That’s the worst of not having clean hands. Now if Brevet or Lousy or Punter meets his doom, Gedge will have him buried and carry straight on: but the moment Gedge is killed the others will fade away.” He looked at me. “Perhaps that would be a good thing.”
“I’m going to kill Brevet,” I said. “Lousy can live if he likes, but he won’t be the same.”
Mansel nodded.
“Right. We can’t very well say ‘Gedge last’, because that mightn’t suit Gedge. But Brevet and Lousy shall be preferred to him.
“Now I think it would be a mistake to carry the fight to them. Unless I am much mistaken, Arx is very much more than an ivory tower: and if we attacked such a place, I think it more than likely that we should play into their hands. It would be very much better to let them see us near Arx, draw them into the uplands and let them have it there. With luck, we might bring that off. But such a move would have to be perfectly made, for Gedge is well aware that we don’t run away. Otherwise, we must watch them go out and then follow them. The snag there is that they may not go where we want. I mean, we’ve got to be careful. Much of this country is suited to sudden death: but you cannot bump a man off at noon on a main highway. Gedge would – don’t forget that. But I don’t want to lie low for the next three months. Neither do you, William – cub-hunting’s coming on. Still, I think we must look to one of these lines for success. Either we lead them along, or we let them lead us: and when they are where we want them, we do our worst.
“And now for Arx. That château interests me and I think it must interest you. And if I were Gedge, once I knew that mine enemy was at hand, I’d do my level best to lead him to Arx. What is de Parol’s business, I’ve no idea: but it’s something pretty hot to warrant a place like that. But, whatever it is I don’t want to get involved. I’m not a thief-taker. So let us agree upon this – that we never approach that village, however desirable such an approach may appear.
“Finally, let me say this. Gedge isn’t downstairs at this moment, for Bell, who is watching the road, would have let us know if he was. But there aren’t any street lamps here and in twenty minutes or so Bell won’t be able to see. And ten minutes after that Gedge may be downstairs. That’s the sort of fellow he is. We’ll get him all right, but I do think he’ll give us a run.
“And now let’s forget the blackguard – for half an hour. What about wires, William?”
“Wires are delivered with letters, once a day; that is to say in the morning about ten o’clock: but the postman passes this house when he’s on his way home, so if a wire or a letter should arrive in the course of the day, he’ll leave it here in the evening, as he goes by. And he’ll take any wires for us – I’ve left a thousand francs at the Post Office on which they are going to draw.”
“He’ll take a letter?” said John.
“Of course,” said I. “But if you’re going to write one, you’ll have to be quick. If he’s coming tonight, he’ll be here any minute now.”
John sat down there and then and began to write, but before he had covered a page Rowley entered the room, bearing a letter for Mansel and a telegram from me.
I opened and read my wire.
Friday all very well Jenny.
I opened my notebook and checked it: all was well.
(False wires can be sent. So my wife was always to name the day of the week and to vary her way of saying that all was well.)
I looked up to meet Mansel’s eyes. He was holding an envelope up.
“You must admit,” he said, “that Brevet writes a very nice hand.”
Captain Jonathan Mansel DSO
c/o Monsieur et Madame Caillau,
par Izard.
“Well I’m damned,” said I.
“What did I say?” said Mansel. He slit the envelope and read the letter aloud.
DEAR CAPTAIN MANSEL,
It is so nice to know that we are neighbours. And, from what I hear of Madame Caillau, you will be well looked after for the rest of your life. What glorious weather! I have just asked Gedge if he has any message for you. His reply has been typically downright, but hardly, shall we say, in tune with the Infinite.
Pray remember me to Mr Chandos, and Believe me,
Yours very sincerely,
MAURICE BREVET.
“No man can deny,” said Mansel, “that Brevet has an excellent wit: but, as before, he must show it: he would have been so much wiser to keep to himself the fact that they knew we were here.”
“How did they know?” said John.
“I’ve no idea,” said Mansel. “If de Parol is breaking the law – and I think he is – the presence of strangers may be reported to him. Or Caillau may have run into some servant from Arx. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I don’t think they will come here: but I’ll lay any money they try and get us to Arx.”
I got to my feet.
“I’m tired of the swine,” I said. “Let’s take the evening air.”
The valley in which our farm stood was as rich as any I know in the Pyrénées. It lay beyond the foothills and under the mountains themselves, and it seemed all pasture and orchards, with a tiny village or two, to serve its husbandmen. It was by no means flat, and the pretty road which served it was rising and falling and twisting for all its length: had a man walked those six miles, I think they would have seemed three, so varied and so rare were the prospects which would have filled his eye. Below the hanging forests, the writ of Husbandry ran: but Nature had not been ousted: the merry waters sang in their ancient beds; the sweet, rich grass arrayed outlines beyond the reach of art; grove and orchard and paddock were rendering unto their Mother the things that were hers.